


Fine Dining

by coeurdeleo92



Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Dinner Parties, Implied Cannibalism, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coeurdeleo92/pseuds/coeurdeleo92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A half-finished fic I started a couple of years back based off a prompt on a Livejournal Hannibal challenge. Recently discovered it on my old laptop and decided it needs a conclusion.</p><p>The prompt:</p><p>"After the recent success, Hannibal decides to hold another dinner party. Both he and Alana manages to persuade Will to attend. Knowing how elegant and formal the other attendees will be, Will decides to clean up...by styling his hair, SHAVING, and wearing a suit that isn't tweed. Cue all the other guests interested in getting to know more about the shy, handsome FBI friend of Hannibal's, and of course, Hannibal finding a few more rude people to go in his grocery list."</p><p>Set during Season 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To say that Will was nervous would be an understatement of the greatest proportions. His heart felt like it would beat right out of his throat at any moment and he rubbed his palms on his trousers, trying to dry the sweat that had gathered there. Forcing his hand to reach for the bell and ring it, he shuffled from one foot to the other as he waited for the door to open. Ever the impeccably mannered host, Hannibal would not, of course, leave any guest to linger outside for long, and as he heard the chime of the doorbell he smoothly excused himself from a conversation with a local politician (whose grating laughter had begun to wear on the doctor’s nerves and make his fingers twitch in an urge to grip the man’s throat) and strode to the door, sending a practiced smile to a couple of the other guests as he passed. He opened the door, ready to offer a greeting, but the words died before they could leave his lips

 

Earlier that day

 

Will was having trouble believing what he had agreed to. When Hannibal had mentioned the party he was hosting the following night, and had been most insistent that Will attend, as he had managed to avoid the last two, Will had stammered out a thanks, quietly hoping, for once, that a sudden spate of murders would take place that would mean he would just have to avoid the occasion again, and all the awkwardness that would surely accompany it.

It was not that he wanted to avoid Hannibal, and he certainly did not wish to be rude to the doctor, who was endlessly gentile and tactful, but Will had spent most of his life avoiding large gatherings, and a high class dinner party, of all things, was so far out of his comfort zone of quiet solitude and his cramped, dog-scented house that it was making him break out in a cold sweat even at the thought of it. Yes, at this point even a triple homicide would have been a welcome relief from the anxiety that was building inside him. But it was already three in the afternoon and nothing remotely murderous seemed forthcoming, and so he was beginning to resign himself to having to make an appearance and attempt to seem normal and cultured for the evening.

Two hours later, and Will was staring morosely into his small wardrobe, realising that nothing he owned would meet the exacting standards of Hannibal and his immaculate clothing. Checked shirts, folded and crammed onto shelves, and a drab array of chinos in various shades of khaki and grey stared back at him. He sat down heavily on the end of his bed, Winston nosing at his hand and giving it a quick lick, as he continued to stare blankly at his wardrobe. Everything was slightly baggy, slightly doggy-smelling and completely unsuitable for anything half-formal, and Hannibal did not do anything by halves. Will scratched behind Winston’s ears, as his eyes trailed across the row of trousers and tweed jackets (the college lecturer’s regulation wear), until they fixed on the half-concealed suit holder that hung squashed in the corner, blending into the shadows with its dull grey colour.

He stood, reaching out to lift out the holder and unsettling a layer of dust that had gathered on it as he did so. He unzipped the front, gazing down at the long-forgotten suit that lay inside, a remnant from a family wedding several years before. It was a dark navy, close to black, with a somewhat-crisp white shirt which, with some ironing, could look almost respectable. It would have to do.

Will trudged to the bathroom, setting the shower to the hottest temperature and standing for several minutes in under the blasting water, enjoying the blankness of his mind for those few moments. Jack’s ever-more-frequent calls to investigate the most horrifying murders in the state were taking their toll on his sleeping pattern, not to mention his mind. As he stepped out of the shower, steam rising around him, he scrubbed a hand over his face, noticing that his ever-present stubble was rapidly developing into a fully-fledged beard. Rooting around in the cupboard under the sink, he grabbed a mostly empty can of shaving foam and his razor, hand knocking into an almost full tub of hair gel. It narrowly avoided his foot, and he grabbed it as it clattered to the floor, placing it on the counter out of the way.

Beginning to shave, Will’s mind flashed briefly to Hobbs, with his knife to Abigail’s throat, and his hand jerked slightly, the razor dragging at his stubble. Thankfully not tilted enough to slice into his skin, it did leave him with a small patch completely smooth, and he stared at it in the mirror, realising how ridiculous it would look. Realising it would be easier to shave the rest off, rather than hope to disguise it or keep a hand in the vicinity of his right cheek all night, he set to work, cool air wafting through the bathroom door and making his cheeks tingle.

As he washed the last of the foam from his face, Will’s eyes fell again on the hair gel that he had knocked out of the cupboard. He shrugged to himself, grabbing it and ruffling a small amount through his slightly damp curls, hoping they would give the mess that was his hair some illusion of neatness. He reached for his glasses, wiping condensation off of them and perching them back upon his nose as he left the bathroom.

Leaving damp footprints along the hall to his bedroom, he dried off, his skin returning to its usual pale tone after the pinkness it had taken on in the heat of the shower. Grabbing a pair of boxers from a drawer, he stared again at the suit, remembering the wedding he had worn it to years ago. Back then he had been gangly and more awkward, still discovering the full extent of his “gift” and not quite grown into his limbs. The suit had been large and ill-fitted, gifted from a cousin who had grown several inches in a short time and could no longer wear it. It was fine quality though, the fabric soft and the stitching well done. It simply had not suited a young, coltish man trying not to be noticed at a family gathering.

Will took the trousers from the hanger, quietly hoping they would still fit. He was slim, the result of little sleep and little food (though Dr Lecter seemed to be trying to change that), but he had filled out over the last few years. He slipped them on, tension leaving him slightly as he buttoned them and noted that they felt comfortable, the tops of the legs just skimming his thighs and the hem, thankfully, not exposing pale ankles to the world. He wandered bare-chested through the house, the heat of the evening sun warming the kitchen as he unfolded the small ironing board to iron the shirt. Still warm, he slipped it on, tucking it in and buttoning it, leaving the top two buttons undone. He opened the door, calling the dogs, who had been roaming in the trees around his house. They came bounding towards him, smelling the food he was emptying into various bowls on the porch, scrambling to eat. He lingered, watching them, deciding that they would be happier outside for the rest of the evening, rather than shut inside the house.

Glancing down at his watch, he swore quietly. It was going to take him close to an hour to get to the doctor’s house, and he was going to be late. He rushed back to grab his jacket, stuffing his phone and wallet into pockets, calling goodbye to the dogs and heading towards his car.

As he drove along the path that wound towards Hannibal’s house, or rather mansion, the anxiety returned. What was he doing at a party like this? What if nobody talked to him? What if somebody talked to him? His fingers tightened on the wheel and he forced himself to take deep breaths. Pulling into the driveway, he parked under a tree in the shadows, sitting for several minutes to build up the courage to get out of the car and walk to the door. He was close to simply driving back down the path and back to his home and his dogs, but a vision of Lecter, lips thinned in disapproval, burst into his vision and he steeled himself, climbing out of the car and marching, stiff-legged, to the door, heart pounding.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal swung open the door smoothly, eyes flicking up to the guest’s face, and he stopped, staring at the man before him.

It was Will, that was undeniable, but what a change from his usual battered shirts and scruffy stubble. His normally fluffy curls were defined and shone gently in the light that glowed inside the hall, and his face was bare, jawline defined and smooth. A muscle twitched on one side, betraying his tensed jaw and discomfort. The ever-present glasses still rested on his nose, but rather than working with the unruly curls and beard to obscure and hide him, they accented Will’s clear eyes.

Hannibal’s eyes drifted down to the suit that Will wore, a welcome change from his usual attire. The deep navy jacket hugged his shoulders and waist, the trousers accenting his slim legs. His fingers itched to rumple the sharp lines of the suit, to return Will to his usual slightly-mussed state. Instead, he smiled, white teeth taking on a predatorial shine.

Ducking his head in a familiar gesture of apology and discomfort, Will half-smiled, one shoulder coming up in a shrug.

“Sorry, I know I’m late.”

Hannibal cleared his throat quietly, not quite trusting his voice to remain level.

“Not at all. Well, fashionably so, if anything. Please, do come in.”

Will smiled, eyes flashing to meet Hannibal’s briefly before skimming away again quickly, and he shuffled inside, shoulder grazing Hannibal’s chest as he moved past him into the hall, sounds of glasses clinking and people talking echoing from the main room. Anxiety rushed back to Will as he felt the presence of a dozen strangers, and he stalled in the centre of the hallway. Instantly, a hand was on his back and the doctor’s voice in his ear.

“Come now, Will, you will be safe here. I’ll help you to find Jack, he arrived not long ago.”

Will nodded, swallowing around the sudden dryness of his throat, and he forced his feet to carry him through the double doors and into the wide lounge, feeling the phantom warmth of the doctor’s large hand lingering between his shoulder blades. Several people turned towards the two men entering the room, though he dismissed it quickly as Hannibal’s strong presence commanding attention, and he avoided their eyes, glancing across until he noticed Jack Crawford clutching a glass of fine champagne and looking almost as uncomfortable in the formal setting as Will himself felt. The two men nodded in greeting to each other, and Hannibal gestured to a waiter, who quickly appeared at Will’s side offering a tray of elegant champagne flutes. He took one, awkwardly muttering thanks, holding it tightly in his hand as Jack asked the doctor about the origin of the champagne, trying to appear as though he knew more than he did. 

Will listened tensely, fingers toying with the champagne glass, as Hannibal spouted French-sounding names and Jack made approving noises. With his eyes fixed on a point on the far wall, he did not notice Lecter’s eyes straying over him, tracing invisible paths along his jawline and dancing over his curls. The faint sound of the doorbell brought Hannibal to the end of his sentence, and he excused himself.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, I must go and greet our final guest.”

He glided off, and the two men were left standing together, unsure how to start a conversation that did not revolve around murder and the police force. They were saved by the voice of Alana Bloom ringing out from behind Will.

“Will, oh my god, you look, well, fantastic! Dr Lecter said he’d invited you but that he wasn’t sure you would be comfortable enough to come. Not that we talk about you. But honestly, you look wonderful!”

Will scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, mouth twisting as he tried to respond. He was saved, though by Hannibal’s re-entrance into the room, calling the attention of the guests to announce:

“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is about to be served in the dining room.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal sat at the head of the table, nodding and feigning interest in a story being told by a fellow psychiatrist from a nearby practice about his work compiling and analysing Jung’s theories, his mind occupied with thoughts of William Graham. He been attracted to the younger man from their first meeting, more by his sharp retorts and the potential his dark mind showed than by his appearance, though he could not deny that he also found him physically attractive. 

Will’s features had a pleasant roughness to them, expressive eyes and full lips offset by his strong jawline and stubble. Hannibal was certain he was popular among his students, not that Will would be likely to notice or approve. Tonight, though, he was not simply handsome but striking, as evidenced by the women either side of him at the other end of the table laughing and clearly flirting with the shy agent. Lecter’s eyes traced along the line of his jaw and down his neck, admiring the way the open collar of Will’s shirt revealed a V of pale skin and the ridge of a sharp collarbone. Not for the first time Hannibal wondered how Will Graham looked without clothing to obscure the lines of his body. He was brought out of his thoughts by laughter from the man beside him, and his eyes narrowed slightly, annoyed. He quickly righted his features though, gracing the man with a chuckle and letting him continue with his rambling, continuing to subtly watch Will.

Hannibal’s fingers clenched around the handle of his knife as he watched the blonde woman to Will’s left place a hand on his forearm, leaning into his space to explain something to him. Will, to his credit, looked deeply uncomfortable with the situation, eyes darting around the room as if salvation would materialise out of thin air. Briefly his eyes caught Hannibal’s, and the doctor’s lips twitched in a wry smirk. Will frowned slightly, annoyed, but he caught the humour in Hannibal’s eyes and felt a small grin stretch his lips. The blonde beside him seemed to think he was smiling at something he said, and her fingers squeezed slightly on his arm. Will jumped slightly, his arm jerking away. Hannibal noted that she had the grace not to replace her hand. He would rather avoid having to remove his competition, as it were.

 

Dinner continued as Hannibal had expected, the meals beautifully cooked (he received a great deal of praise for the beef carpaccio, and he made a note to compare the effect on the taste depending on the fitness and musculature of his next “dinner guest”) and the wine perfectly complementing the flavours. Hannibal found his eyes straying frequently to Will Graham, whose posture was becoming more relaxed as he emptied his wine glass. He was talking animatedly to Jack about boats, from what Hannibal could gather from the snippets of conversation that reached his ears, and he admired the way Will’s mouth moved animatedly as he gestured with one hand.

As the last of the dessert plates were cleared by the waiters he had hired for the event, Hannibal rose from his seat, and the heads of the guests turned to him. He smiled, 

“I hope you have all enjoyed your meal” There was nodding and murmurs of assent. “Coffee will be served in the living room, if you would like to make your way there.”

The diners rose, conversations resuming, and began to meander towards the smell of coffee wafting from the nearby room. Will lingered, awkward, and Hannibal crossed the room to join him. Will looked up as he approached, hand coming to rub at the back of his neck. Hannibal was, as usual, immaculately clothed, and the stone-grey waistcoat he wore over a deep maroon shirt shifted over his waist as he walked. Will forced his eyes away from the pull of the fabric and his mind away from thoughts that he was not keen to dissect at this moment.

“Um… the meal was delicious. Thanks for inviting me.”

Hannibal smiled, teeth flashing white in the muted light of the room.

“I’m glad you could make it, Will. You seemed far more at ease than usual.”

Will’s eyes were wary, wondering if this was another psychoanalytical statement, but he nodded.

“I suppose good food and good wine help with that. And the lack of murder victims.”

Hannibal raised a hand, stopping that thought in its tracks.

“Please, Will, let us have a night without work following us home.”

Will half-smiled, biting back an acerbic comment about murder always following him home. Instead, he glances towards the door, noticing that the sounds of chatting and laughter have faded down the hallway.

“We should probably…”

Hannibal tilted his head in a tiny bow of acknowledgement. His hand found Will’s shoulder, heat radiating from his palm through the fabric of the suit.

“Of course, Will. After you.”

Will was motionless for a moment, focussed on the touch of the doctor’s hand and torn between shifting away, a deep-rooted knee-jerk reaction to contact that had been with him from childhood, or leaning towards the warmth, in need of more contact. The hand slid down slightly, along his shoulder blade, and he blinked, coming back to the present and forcing his legs to move.

 

Hannibal followed close behind him, close enough that Will could feel his presence, imagine that he could hear the whispered rustling of fabric as shifted with Lecter’s movements. He could still feel the trail Hannibal’s hand had blazed down his shoulder, his mind supplying him with images of those hands burning paths down his bare back and tracing along his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, blaming the wine and Hannibal’s lopsided smiles for his addled brain. 

A hand slipping into his halted him in his tracks. Gently tugged on it, encouraging him to turn around.

He turned to face Lecter, barely breathing. His eyes fixed on a sharp cheekbone, unwilling to meet the doctor’s eyes for fear of what he might read in them.

“Will, forgive me if this is improper, but you do look exquisite tonight.”

Red stained Will’s cheeks, and his eyes widened, fixed on Hannibal’s. They locked gazes for seconds, before Will had to look away, finding desire and, more surprisingly, deep affection. 

Then, surprising both himself and Hannibal, he stretched up, eyes closing as his lips pressed onto Hannibal’s.

If anyone cared to ask, Will would blame the wine he had drunk for his moment of recklessness.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal’s hand found his jaw, the recently-shaved skin tingling at his touch, and Will’s own hand hovered over the doctor’s waist before settling there, feeling the muscle under the layers of fine cloth. 

A sudden loud burst of laughter from the room not ten paces away broke them apart, but their hands remained interlocked. Hannibal’s hand squeezed Will’s.

“I will conclude tonight’s party as quickly as possible. Will you stay? Please?”

Will hesitated, then nodded, not trusting his dry mouth. 

Hannibal’s face lit up with a sudden wide smile, and he leaned in to press a warm kiss to Will’s cheek, then disappeared through the half-open door. Will stumbled back against the wall, leaning his head back against the cool wallpaper. 

In the living room he could hear Hannibal’s accented voice and others replying, but he did not care to investigate. Instead he stayed in the hall, unwilling to be around a crowd of people when his mind was buzzing with emotions, both his own and those that had crept in from Hannibal. He considered, briefly, how unusual it was to pick up on emotions from the doctor, who was adept at building his “forts”. While he was thankful for the respite this provided in their conversations, he had to admit that the warmth he had felt from Hannibal was also soothing. He decided he would leave those thoughts for another time, focussing instead on the solidity of the wall behind him.

Pulling his glasses off to let them hang loosely from his fingers at his side, he squeezed the bridge of his nose, massaging slightly with his eyes closed. He could not have said how long he stood there in the dark of the hall, light filtering through the half-open door, but he looked up as the door opened and light washed over him, the figure of Hannibal outlined in the door.

Will smiled lopsidedly, half-relieved he could not see the doctor’s expression. Hannibal’s quiet voice reached his ears.

“The last of the guests just left, would you like to come through?”

Will nodded jerkily, pushing off of the wall and suddenly feeling guilty about leaning against what was undeniably horribly expensive wallpaper. As he entered the room he glanced around, finding Hannibal leaning over a laden tray.

“Can I offer you coffee? Tea?”

“Um… tea. Thanks.”

Hannibal inclined his head and set to work. No supermarket teabags for the doctor, of course. Instead he scooped a spoonful of tea leaves into a strainer, balancing the contraption on a delicate teacup and pouring over hot water. Will stood watching his hands confidently stirring and adding a dash of milk with a slight flourish, thinking how confident the doctor was in his kitchen with his knives, and pointedly not thinking about what else those hands could do.

He glanced up to see Hannibal smirking at him, realising the tea was brewed and he had been staring, transfixed, at the other man’s hands. He quickly averted his eyes, clearing his throat and taking the tea when Hannibal offered it to him, glad to have something to do with his hands. Hannibal returned to the table for his own cup, then moved across to the richly upholstered couch. He eased backwards onto the sofa, hitching his trousers slightly as he sat. He patted the space beside him, eyes flashing up to meet Will’s. Will swallowed around the lump in his throat and moved towards the sofa, cradling the cup of tea in his hands.

They sat in silence together for several moments, Will fiddling with his cup as Hannibal watched him surreptitiously. After what felt like an age, the doctor reached across the narrow space between them, hand gently settling on Will’s sleeve, over the slight creases he could see from where the woman he had watched jealously earlier that evening hand clenched her fingers around Will’s wrist. Will looked up at the contact, eyes large behind his glasses. He didn’t pull away though, and Hannibal reached for his nearly-empty cup, placing it with his own on the coffee table beside the sofa.

Without the cup to occupy his hands, Will twisted his fingers together, half-wishing he could intertwine them with Hannibal’s again. As if reading his mind, the doctor’s hand returned to his sleeve, sliding down his arm slowly so that his fingers brushed the palm of Will’s now-upturned hand. His hands were large and warm, the fingernails neatly trimmed and spotless, a contrast to Will’s own rough hands. He noticed, though, a small silver scar along Hannibal’s thumb, perhaps from one of his wickedly-sharp kitchen knives. Hannibal’s voice broke through his meditations.

“I really am glad you could make it tonight, Will. I fear this party would have been far less interesting without you.”

Will felt his cheeks heat slightly, thinking of his rash move earlier that night and unsure if the doctor was mocking him. He risked a look at the man next to him.

Hannibal’s face showed no trace of mockery. Instead, Will saw heat in his expression, a desire which he was sure was mirrored on his own face. Even if it were not, he had faith in Hannibal’s psychiatric abilities, and suddenly wondered how long Hannibal had been aware of Will’s more than friendly interest in him. Perhaps longer than Will himself had been?

A hand reached to cup his jaw, as it had earlier in the hallway, Hannibal’s thumb rubbing over the soft skin there. Will leaned into the touch, eyes slipping closed. Feeling a puff of air on his lips, he half opened them, only for them to slip shut again as Hannibal’s lips pressed against his own, then slanted to deepen the kiss.

Their lips slid together, Hannibal’s teeth catching on Will’s lower lip and nipping gently, causing Will to gasp quietly. He pressed forwards though, leaning into the doctor, whose other hand looped around his waist to pull him in.


End file.
